


It's A Kind of Magic

by howllx



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Supernatural
Genre: Not Canon Compliant, djinn, timelines kind of out of wack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 10:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13316103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howllx/pseuds/howllx
Summary: The time the Doctor and Clara met the Winchesters and the supernatural world.





	It's A Kind of Magic

**Author's Note:**

> this was written a little while after I'd actually watched Supernatural, specifically the djinn episode, so excuse any faults to the monster on my bad memory

The Doctor believed in a lot of things. There were myths that humans would call fairy tales and fables, scary stories built for the sole purpose of scaring children at night.   
The Doctor knew that most of these make believe creatures were real, in some sense of the word. He would like to think that at some point in time the human world knew of their origin - that no, vampires did not exist, but there was an alien race that shared the same characteristics. Though perhaps were would be a better word; the last time he was in Venice he may have killed off the last of them. But - werewolves! Those too were based off an ancient breed of alien; a lot of mythical beasts were.   
Maybe The Doctor did not believe in things, rather he believed that behind the lore and crazy wives tale, there was a scientific explanation. He would try to keep an open mind - because maybe magic did exist, in some other universe, some far away dimension - but here, in this place he frequented, he had yet to find any evidence of such things. He wasn’t against them - quite the contrary, he longed for them. Fairies and wizards and dragons - real, fire breathing, non-alien dragons - were things he’d never experienced. And The Doctor loved trying new things, living a constant adventure.   
He remembers on one occasion taking Clara to the whereabouts of Camelot. They'd been on the hunt for King Arthur and his sorcerer, Merlin. There was no factual evidence that the two men ever existed - there were assumptions and hard guesses and most of them assumed that King Arthur had in fact been multiple men. But no other researcher could actually go back and see for themselves. Clara, who believed in such stories as Robin Hood and Peter Pan, had high hopes that they’d find what they were looking for. The Doctor had the misfortune of going through this before, perhaps not in this exact same scenario, but has learned through his time that - generally - these things don’t exist.   
This time had been no different. While they had seen King Arthur and his magnificent kingdom, his right hand Merlin had been human - and Merlin hadn’t even been his name. There had been a round table though, and a couple of exceptional knights - it had soothed Clara.   
“But why can’t it exist, Doctor?” Clara had asked. “When you think about it, magic doesn’t seem so crazy when you take all of this in to account.” She’d thrown her hands up in the Tardis, swirled around once. “You can travel in time! Your face changes. It can’t all be science can it?”  
Truthfully, the Doctor didn’t know, not for sure. There were whole other galaxies and universes that he’d never seen. Depending on the type of magic - it wasn’t that far-fetched. There were people who believed everything had to have a reason, a cause and effect. They can’t find fact in magic because it appears as this wild, unexplainable idea. But there were two ways to look at that. If you needed a reason, a full-proof way to explain how something happens, then you can think of it as a part of that person’s biology. Something in their blood, a sixth sense they control (there are variables to this theory, but of course there are it’s magic). There’s also seeing magic without a reason. Although the Doctor doesn’t believe in this. It would make sense for magic to have no rule book, no way of understanding where it came from. However, it is able to be controlled - or it’s portrayed that way - so it doesn’t work. The Doctor could go along with the idea of an element this world lacks, an element that permeates the air, an element that is essentially magic.   
He hadn’t said any of this to Clara. His thoughts had moved too fast to allow him to do so. All he’d said was, “It’s possible.”   
And it was. He just had to find it. 

 

He’d been keeping a look out (albeit secretly) for months after their short time in Camelot. He really hated to see that look on Clara’s face, which - she’s old enough to understand that sometimes things just don’t work out the way you want them to, the Doctor is still older than her and can’t help but feel that responsibility and instinct to want to make her happy.   
So he’s begun paying attention to present day news. He had thought at first to look everywhere, past and future alike; but he thought Clara would be happiest if she experienced magic - or whatever he finds - in her current time. It’s more difficult than he would like to admit - skimming newspapers and using the internet. He doesn’t like it. The Doctor is usually so spontaneous; he usually lets the adventure find him and rolls with it. Now he has to wait and search and read and he’s dreading the boring, plainness of it all.   
The Doctor does this for a while. He reads and travels around, scopes out potential places. He doesn’t know why he has so much hope. Why he cares so much. Clara doesn’t even know he’s doing this, so it isn't liked he’d be letting her down if he gives up. But perhaps this isn't just about Clara. The Doctor - he considers himself an optimist. He always has hope that things will turn out okay. He has to, when half of the time he’s saving people’s lives. And at this point, he’s invested in the idea of finding something that isn't science or a joke. He's let himself care too much, and now nothing, not even his own boredom will stop him from finding what he wants. 

 

He’s surprised when it comes in the form of a walk through the park.   
It’s a dark summer’s night, pleasantly cool and sweet smelling. Clara had said she’d like to see the full moon reflected on a lake’s surface. She’d been reading some book, and the request wasn’t actual, but as soon as she’d said it, The Doctor attached himself to the idea. It sounded nice. He found a state that was all rural landscapes and open, lush fields. He wasn’t sure which state, he didn’t care. He just wanted a nice setting, and it didn’t take much to please Clara.   
The park was beautiful in its serenity and calmness. Being as it was around nine at night, the Doctor and Clara were alone. They found a bench by the lake side and sat in enjoyable silence. This was the type of thing Clara brought to his life; calmness. She made him forget to rush. He’s always so used to running about and he never gets a chance to do this; to just sit and watch the waves.   
“Thank you,” Clara said.   
The Doctor turned to smile at her, but somehow in the split nanosecond that it took for him to shift slightly, she was being hauled away.   
He couldn’t see in the darkness, but he could hear her screams and feel her small grasp on his arm slipping. All too soon she’s lost in the shadows with nothing left but a fading echo of her screaming.  
That is until he caught sight of the two men barreling towards him. They stopped just short of the bench The Doctor was still sat on; he wasn’t moving for some reason and he couldn’t understand why. Clara had just been - what? Abducted? It had happened so suddenly, without warning and then it was over before he could even process what’d happened. Of course, they are relatively used to this - traveling with the Doctor is a dangerous thing, after all. But that doesn’t mean it’s any less scary. Clara is probably - the Doctor doesn’t want to think about it; she’s strong through, and he always saves her.   
The two men each have a torch; there are two burning lights glaring on him.   
“Did you see what it was?” One of them practically shouted. The Doctor couldn’t see either of them past the beam of the flashlight, but he could tell they weren’t any form of police or specialized group. Going on a hunch, the Doctor would say they were plain civilians.   
“It was too dark,” The Doctor prides himself in his ability to keep his voice calm and even when the situation was not. “Who are you?”  
The lights move, two faces appear, two young males, one with dark, long hair and the other blonde and green eyed. They identified as Sam and Dean respectively.   
“Ah,” The Doctor stood up; here the light shifted and he could recognize the full exterior of the men in front of him. They each had firearms in hand and were downed in sturdy army green jackets. “I’ll make the assumption you two knew the ‘it’ was. So would you mind telling me?”   
They exchange a look, but The Doctor cannot read it in the limited lighting. The one named Sam says, “Probably just a mugger.”  
“Nothing to worry about,” Dean adds.   
“You said ‘it.’” The Doctor reminded them. “Had it been a mugger, you would have at least said them.”  
“It was a slip-“  
“No, please tell me it was an alien or something else just as exciting.” He’s grinning because of course it isn’t human, they never are. “And also, please don’t lie. That was my friend, and there isn’t anything I won’t do to get her back.” At the moment, The Doctor is going through his files of aliens that would behave this way - snatching and running. A few come up, but the setting isn’t right, they wouldn’t be on Earth. That means the Doctor may not know what this thing is - and isn’t that just amazing? Of course he’s still worried - Clara is gone but the Doctor, well he may be getting too sure of himself, just a tad. It’s just, he always saves the day, it’s what he does, what he’s good at. Usually. And he wasn’t lying - there was nothing the Doctor wouldn’t do to save her, to save anyone, but especially her.   
He watches Sam open his mouth, but it’s Dean that hurries to say, “Who are you? Your friend is gone and you’re excited?”  
The Doctor shrugs. “It’s all a bit of fun, right?” He adjusts his bow tie. “So, what are we working with?”  
“You didn’t answer the question.”   
“Oh, right, sorry. I’m the Doctor, I’m from a planet called Gallifrey - although you probably never heard of it, I destroyed it ages ago. I’m a time lord - that’s right,” He pauses, because when the Doctor has a chance to be dramatic, of course he’s going to take it. “An alien.”  
He’s expecting a lot of fuss, a lot of “that’s nonsense,” and “give me proof.” But surprisingly, the boys run with it.   
“Ever heard of a djinn?” 

 

In only about an hour, Sam and Dean Winchester had managed to reveal to the Doctor a world he never knew existed. The brothers had no idea, of course; the Doctor was a pro at schooling his face, seeming unfazed when he’s throwing confetti in his mind - the two just kept talking, pausing briefly when the Doctor asks a question.   
First, they explain what a djinn is: “It’s kind of like a genie, giving you what you most desire, but - you’re asleep and they're steadily draining you of life.”   
“How do they know it’s what you desire?”  
“It’s how they keep you under.” Dean had said after explaining that he’d been a victim to one before. “Because you can fight it and try to wake up, but it’s - very hard. It’s even harder to do when life seems to perfect.”   
Admittedly, this got the Doctor - worried. It was one thing to be captured by someone you could negotiate with; Clara was excellent at talking when she needed to be. But, if she’s lying comatose somewhere, the life bleeding out of her - that meant the Doctor was under a time restraint. Dean said Sam had saved him three days in, and at that point he’d been a dead man walking, dehydrated and starved. So, yes, he was very worried, but also - it was very interesting. It was a very genius way to keep your captives from trying to get away. There was something to admire about this species. When he rescued Clara - and it was when, not if - he was going to ask what she experienced. Honestly, he’d go under himself if he could convince Sam and Dean to pull him out.   
He tried breaching the subject, but Dean cut him with a look that could kill, so the Doctor didn’t push it.   
They were staying in a motel close to the park. Apparently, this djinn had made the park it’s hunting ground, so the brothers had made sure to make base nearby.   
“Djinn hunt in pairs though,” Sam reminded the Doctor once they gotten to the room. “We made that mistake last time.”   
It amazed the Doctor that there were whole types of creatures with distinct characteristics and personalities. They weren’t made up, and they weren’t devised to simply scare you. A djinn took the life from a human to survive (he wondered if they would even want to feed from him).  
They went in turns describing what one looked like; “glowing blue eyes and black markings all over their body.” How to take one down; “a wooden stake dipped in lambs blood.”  
Sam provided the Doctor with a leather journal filled with hand written accounts of, not only djinns, but all the other creatures out there. It was - the Doctor rarely ever gets to experience this. This not knowing. This learning. He’s usually the one with all the answers but now - now he’s the one asking the questions. And it’s brilliant. It’s amazing; really, he’d be in a complete fit if it weren’t for the fact that currently Clara was captured by one of them.   
He flips through the pages slowly. He’s aware of the brothers - Sam watching kind of bemused, and Dean assembling equipment and weaponry - but he’s more interested in the words on the thick pages in front of him. Werewolves. Vampires. Ghosts. And a dozen more, each with it’s own graphic description, pictures included. Ordinarily, the Doctor can breeze through a book, and he could here too, but he doesn’t want to. He’s savoring each word, each image, completely taken away by the complex world he’d knew nothing about.   
When he’s satisfied - for now, at least - he closes the book with a bang. “The book’s hand written.” He says, staring at the ceiling. “Who wrote it?”  
Dean pauses in his work long enough to say, “Out dad.”  
“A family of hunters.” The Doctor muses.   
The brothers exchange a look, but don’t say anything. He may have touched a nerve, but, moving on - “Do you have any idea where the djinn resides?”  
“We have an idea,” Sam says. “But we haven’t gone to check yet.”  
“Why not?”  
“Had to be sure what exactly we were going after, first of all. We only just got to town a day or so ago.”  
The Doctor hums. “So you - you read newspapers, go online. Look for mysterious, supernatural activity?”  
Sam nods. “Sometimes we get a call, but usually it’s hit or miss. Sometimes it’s nothing more than an average guy reeking average havoc.”   
Logically, the Doctor knows it can’t just be these tow. There had to more throughout the world, with all the amount of creatures that seem to exist, these two brothers cannot be the only ones dealing with them. Then again, there are whole universes full of dangerous aliens the Doctor himself has dealt with. And he’s done it relatively alone. Ultimately, he admires the Winchesters. They’re resilient; he can tell by the heaviness in their eyes and strength by which they carry themselves. They’re similar - the Doctor and the two men, in a way.   
“Do we have a plan?” It’s so strange. The most bizarre feeling to be asking the questions, to not know what’s going to happen. He’s never had to rely on someone else’s brain before. He may sometimes ask for second opinions, but it’s usually joking. For the first time in a while, the Doctor isn’t in charge.   
“Sort of,” Sam says.   
The Doctor is about to ask, but then Dean elaborates, “In the morning, we’ll head to where we think they’re settled. They’re usually more dormant in the morning - at least these guys are.” He shrugs. “It’s kind of a sneak in and attack kind of deal.”  
The Doctor doesn’t have a problem with this, considering it resembles how he like to work. He switches topics. “Can we talk more about them? These djinn?”   
“What do you want to know?”  
“The deepest desires part,” the Doctor says. “And the ‘being asleep’ part. Explain those.”  
“There’s not much to say.” Sam says, although he looks excited, like the facts are interesting to him as well, or maybe the Doctor is reading into it. “They can tell a person’s desires and fears by looking at them. There’s a poison in their touch that causes their victim to hallucinate a fantasy world based on those fears or dreams.”   
“You didn’t mention fears previously.” This makes him feel marginally more worried. It’s one thing to be stuck in a world you’d willingly enter; it is a completely different thing to be trapped in a nightmare.   
“Well it depends.”  
“On?”  
Sam blanches. “We aren’t sure.”  
The Doctor exhales slowly; there are three more hours till sunrise. Three more hours and Clara will be safe.   
He would go on his own - he would, but in this situation, where these two happen to know quite a lot (if not all) on the supernatural world, it’s smarter to let them lead. He hopes.   
“Moving on,” He amends. “Draining life?”   
“Again, they don’t always work that way. Sometimes they kill on sight,” Sam doesn’t realize what he’s said, not until the Doctor jumps to his feet, something hot rushing through him. “It didn’t kill her!” Sam rushes to say. “We - I know this for a fact. He wouldn’t have taken her if he wasn’t going to keep her alive.”  
“You’re positive,” The Doctor breathes. “You’re absolutely sure?”  
“Yes!” Sam says, and the Doctor believes him. Sam - he has these eyes, they’re a brilliant hazel and expressive in ways his face isn’t. The Doctor sees truth in them and doesn’t argue. “I’m sorry, I was talking generally.”   
“To be honest,” Dean says, abandoning his gun in favor to sit opposite the bed the Doctor is on. “We’ve only met one djinn that fed on fear rather than desires.” He shrugs. “We assume there are variations based on that but, djinns are rare.”  
“I know it sounds - not reassuring.” Sam says. “But even when we’re making it up as we go along, we usually get it right.”   
And then the Doctor is laughing because the Winchesters - they sound like him. This is what it must feel like when humans are with him. He never knew - obviously, the Doctor trusted himself, he kind of ran along, assuming those following trusted him as well. But - this is what he sounded like - like he had a hunch and you had to just trust him for his word. This is what Rory meant that one time in Venice. The Doctor never understood - he never gave anyone a choice. Even if they couldn’t trust him, even when it looked like he had no idea what he was doing - people had to listen, they had to go along. Even if they didn’t want to, because when it came down to it, the Doctor was their last option.   
That’s not to say the Doctor doesn’t trust these boys. He actually does - he believes they’ve gone through enough of this life to know what they’re doing. It’s just - the parallels. They’re practically the same, aren’t they? The Doctor and the Winchesters. The only difference is, the Doctor specializes in aliens, rather than the supernatural.   
“You’re crazy, man.” Dean mutters, though he looks thoroughly amused.   
“Sorry,” The Doctor huffs, the last of his laughter dying off. “This is just - astounding. Clara’s going to love this.”  
“Is she an alien too?”  
The Doctor shakes his head. “Oh, no. She’s plain human. Well. No. Not plain. Impossible. Impossible girl.”  
“So an alien traveling around with a human girl?” Dean asks, suggestive tone to his voice. “What kind of alien again?”  
“Gallifrey. Planet of the Time Lords.” And the Doctor, never one not to brag, happily opens that can of worms. Who he is, who he was, who he may be. He tells them of his beloved Tardis; of the oncoming storm and the time a good man went to war. He tells them of all the one’s he’s lost, and all those he’s yet to find. The Doctor isn’t shy, exactly, but he’s not usually so open about himself. It’s different here, he thinks. The Winchesters - they’ve exposed themselves to him, maybe not in so many words, but that journal. It had wear and abuse but also love - the writing had changed that changed and the little side notes. The drawings that were made with care. There’s a lot of story there, a lot the Doctor can understand about them, without either of them having to say anything. It’s only common courtesy for the Doctor to provide the same information.   
He tells them about the loneliness he experiences between each period of gone and found. About the death and destruction; the war. The Winchesters - their faces remain unchanged, and they never raise a question, but the Doctor watches their eyes. They sparkles and darken, widen and shrink. The Doctor knows they believe him. The Doctor also knows they’ve seen their fair share - they knew where he’s been, in a way.   
“What did you last look like?” Dean asks when he’s done talking.   
The Doctor tells him, then, “I think I’m the youngest I’ve ever been, and yet still the oldest, too.”   
“And how old is that?”   
The Doctor shrugs. “I think 1209.” He sighs. “It’s getting harder to recall such trivial things.”   
Dean scoffs. “Trivial.” And then, “And I thought our lives were exciting, Sammy.”  
“Well of course they are!” The Doctor says, standing. “Before tonight, I never knew any of this existed - I thought, well, not to set the wrong idea, but I am known to be very clever. This is the first time I’ve been properly surprised in quite a while.” All of this, the pattern of motel rooms, the car, the idea of it all - it’s so enticing, so inviting. He’s starting to get overwhelmed; he’s got to remain focused - Clara’s life is on the line.   
“Well, we’re in the same boat.” Dean says. “Things stop surprising me after making rounds trips to Hell and Purgatory.”   
And, well, didn’t that need to discussing. The Doctor had once encountered something that called itself the Devil; the Doctor, to this day, wasn’t sure what it was. He left that place with a grim disposition - he tried not to think of it. But it did beg the question - what had it been? What existed when you died? Where did you go? The Doctor never thought about this - never has to. Or had to. He wasn’t arrogant enough to believe - no, the time was coming, the end. His end. He wasn’t going to discuss it.   
“Heaven. Hell. Purgatory.” He says smoothly. “Tell me about them.” They have time. Sunrise isn’t for another hour.   
The Winchesters. They are something. He’d been referring to them by the last name, not even realizing what a strong meaning resided behind it.   
The Winchesters - the family willing to sell their souls for each other. The Winchesters - the brothers demons envy and fear. The Winchesters - riding across the American states in a black Impala, recognizable by just about everyone.   
“Winchesters,” The Doctor says, a small smile unstoppable on his lips. “The Winchesters,” He says again. “Had a nice ring to it, don’t you think? Kind of like, The Doctor. Same principles.”   
Suffice to say, the Doctor admires the Winchesters. Had Clara not been in mortal danger, this would have been a wonderful holiday.   
“You know,” The Doctor continues. “The name speaks for itself. If someone says ‘The Winchesters are coming,’ they get the idea.”  
Dean grins. “Start running.” He agrees.   
The Doctor snaps his fingers - points to the older brother. “Exactly.”  
“I like that.” Dean kind of puffs his chest; sits up straighter. “It’s like, ‘The Winchesters - don’t fuck with them.”   
Sam laughs. “More like, ‘The Winchesters - kill on sight.’ I mean,” He adds, “We’ve racked up quite a lot of enemies.”   
Dean nods. “True.” 

 

It isn’t until they see a hint of bleary yellow steadily rising in the horizon that they get into action.   
Dean had made sure to have everything packed in one of their duffel bags hours ago. He and Sam had their guns close to hand, then looked at the Doctor expectantly.   
“Oh,” The Doctor pats his chest, finding the sonic in the left breast pocket. “I have this.” And he shows it proudly, holding it up for the boys to see.   
“And,” Sam says slowly. “That is …?”  
“My sonic screwdriver!” He presses it, lighting up the green end and enabling the whirring, zoning sound.   
“What does it do?”  
“Practically everything,” The Doctor says excitedly. “Oh, well,” He adds, offhand. “It doesn’t work on wood. I have been meaning to do something about that; surprisingly I do get stopped by wooden things quite often.”  
The Winchesters are just staring at him.   
Eventually, Dean rolls his eyes and says, “Let’s just go save your friend.”   
By the park where Clara had been taken, perhaps only a mile down the road, there was an old, 18th century farmhouse with a grand barn, at least three stories high. The idea was, there had been humans living there until a week ago when the djinn moved into town. They’d probably already disposed of those people and were living there themselves; if Sam and Dean didn’t do something about them, the djinn playing house will most likely continue to do so. Clara was probably in the barn, but the possibility of said barn to be without someone guarding it is very slim.   
When they go there, the sun was a washed out, fog covered heat in the sky. The world was awash in purple and gold. The Doctor wondered what it looked like wherever Clara was. He’d thought about whether or not he could ask her, once he’d saved her - or was that considered personal? Would she mind sharing where the djinn’s poison had taken her? Would she want to? Perhaps it wasn’t any of the Doctor’s matter - he isn't sure. He doesn’t actually know what his own deepest desires are; maybe he wouldn’t want to share either.   
“You ready?” Dean asks once they’re pulled up outside the drive way of the house.  
The Doctor nods.   
Each brother takes a wooden stake. “We’d give you one,” Sam says apologetically. “But we don’t have third.”   
“I wouldn’t take it anyway.”   
“Why not?” Dean asks.   
“I prefer using death as a final, no other choice option. I’d rather save everyone.”  
“Even life draining monsters?”   
The Doctor thinks for a second, then smiles. “Did you know, there are a species of alien called a Dream Crab. Coincidentally, they work the same way as these djinn. Draining you of your life, putting you away in a dream.” He doesn’t mention the face sucking part. Or really any of the imperative details one should know about Dream Crabs. The details aren’t the point. “But a crab is a crab. And a djinn - as you described - is still a person. At the very least, they’re humanoid. And in the end, they, each of them, are just trying to survive.”   
Of course - of course - there is so much more to it than that. There are so many, too many, variables to think about. But the basics, just down right to the point, everyone is just trying to survive in the way they know how, in the way they have to.   
“Well,” Dean says, voice tense. “I’m glad you can afford to live like that. We can’t.”   
“Understandable.” The Doctor says, simply because it is. He trusts these men, and it’s not the same for them. And even more important, it wasn’t the Doctor’s place to be questioning the way they do what they’re good at. The Doctor believes Dean - if he says they can't afford to try and spare the enemy, then they can’t.  
The lights are off in the house, and the doors of the barn are closed. Dean creates this plan involving something or another; the Doctor admits he wasn’t listening. He’s used to this part. The sneaking in and – oh, the running. Yes, he’d almost forgotten about the running. So, as it happens, once they existed the car, The Doctor practically flew away from whatever he was supposed to do and straight for the barn.   
Whispered screams echoed faintly behind him, but no one followed, so that was a bonus. Honestly, the Doctor has faced worse. He isn’t worried about himself, but now that he’s here and Clara is here, he cannot just wait for the brothers to catch up.   
The barn is chained shut – easy fix. Luckily, the chain is a rusted metal that clangs loudly and sends up a poof of red dirt when it falls. Inside, the air is dusty and smells of iron. There are no stalls one would expect to find inside a barn. After sweeping around, the Doctor concludes that, at least on the bottom tier, the barn is empty. In the back, there is a wooden ladder leading up to the next level. The Doctor heads up.   
It’s darker up here, danker and the iron smell has transitioned to sweat and a now more distinguishable blood. It takes him a moment to fire the sonic to a higher light setting; once there’s even more light, he sees it all.   
The walls are adorned with chains attached to cuffs – two parallel pairs on a higher section, two on the bottom. The walls themselves, and the floor too, are soaked deep in blood stains. Deep enough that the woods itself is probably sodden to the center. There are floor to ceiling cages in some corners – the Doctor’s hand tightens where he’s gripping the sonic – the cages, they’re not empty. Shoved in and brimming out of the thin openings are humans; scared, terrified, filthy humans – people.   
They haven’t noticed him yet, and the Doctor is grateful. He still needs to find Clara.   
He walks past those unfortunate; there, at the very back attached to the left wall – there’s Clara.   
The Doctor runs over to her, hearts beating rapidly. The chains have her held taunt up against the wall, even though her body is slack and slumped over. He pulls her up against him, hands gentle against her sleeping face. Some of her clothes are torn, and there are tear tracks from where the salt dried on the skin of her cheeks – but otherwise she’s fine. Dehydrated probably, hungry and sore, but it’s only been a night. As soon as she wakes up, she’ll be fine.   
The Doctor gets the chains off of Clara’s ankles and wrists. She falls forwards instantly; he catches her, laying her down on the floor. The skin where the cuffs were is red and peeling with spots of oozing blood – still, the Doctor isn’t worried. He isn’t, because Clara is going to wake up any minute and then they’ll be in the TARDIS and everything will be okay.   
Except –   
Except Clara wasn’t waking up. The Doctor held her face, whispered rushed words – “Wake up, Clara, come on I can’t do it for you, come on,” – but there’s nothing. Her eyelids stay sealed, lips flat – really, she could pass for a statue, if not for the soft skin and rising chest.   
Was she not fighting it? Did she know? Did she know and she didn’t want to fight? No – that couldn’t be it. It couldn’t. That wasn’t Clara. It wasn’t. She just – she didn’t know, obviously, that had to be it. But now – how was he going to help her? He didn’t know what to do.   
The Doctor jumped; one of the brothers had made a concerning noise outside the barn. Did they need help? But Clara – and these people –   
He found himself running, through the barn and down the ladder. Outside, the air had gotten hot and moist. He thought it had been the brothers, one of them screaming for him – but, no.   
Instead, the Doctor was greeted by a woman – if you looked past the fiery blue eyes and sprawling, indecipherable black markings all over her ivory skin – he thought she was quite lovely. Her hair ran thick in red drapes down her back and she had unique shaped lips.   
“That girl,” The woman says, eyes darting up to the barn, then back to the Doctor. “She has the craziest imagination.”   
“Is that so?” The Doctor asked, relaxing his stance and feigning interest.   
The woman nods. “The things she imagines – her greatest desire; where did you two come from?” She quirks her head. “The nut house?”   
“I’m more interested in you.” The Doctor says, and he isn’t lying. He’s glad, in a way, he’s been given this opportunity to talk one on one. If it weren’t for the missing Winchesters and Clara asleep upstairs – this would be a great time for learning. (If only there were a way – a way to keep them all alive – to keep this woman alive, to be able to speak in a less – nerve racking – situation. He thinks, he really, really thinks – and hopes – that this woman, and others like her are only violent out of necessity. That they’re always on the defensive because they are forced to, because if they aren’t they’ll be killed without a fight.) “What’s your name?”   
She chuckles. “That’s rich. You people don’t usually ask.” She shrugs. “Don’t usually talk. You just show up, and you kill.” If she were waiting for a response, the Doctor doesn’t give it. Finally the woman rolls her eyes, “It’s Jane.”   
“Nice to meet you, Jane. I’m the Doctor.” He holds out his hand, but Jane scoffs at him; he can’t tell if she’s annoyed or confused – or what. He thinks this has never happened to her before – this talking and hand shaking and – regularity. He pulls his hand away, but smiles nonetheless. “I don’t want to hurt you.”   
“I don’t believe you.”   
“Of course you don’t – that’s good, smart. But I mean it. I didn’t come here to hurt you.”   
Jane’s smile is vicious. “You come with the Winchesters – of course you came to hurt me.”  
The Doctor nods. “I did come with them, that’s true. I needed to find my friend and they were able to take me to her.” The Doctor sighs, looking around briefly to see where the boys could be; the door of the house is open and crooked where it hangs – inside, then. “Truth is, when it comes to all of this, I’m completely lost.”   
“Now that is a lie.”   
The Doctor raises his eyebrows.   
“According to that girl you’re so worried about, this is what you do.”   
The Doctor hums. “What else have you gathered from Clara’s head?”  
“That you’re an alien. That you’ve got some space ship. That the two of you travel around existence saving people from monsters.” Her eyes narrow. “Monsters like me.”   
“Do you believe it?”   
“That you’re an alien? No.”  
“You exist.” The Doctor says. “Why can’t I?”   
“Why don’t you want to kill me?” Jane asks instead of answering. “I kill people.”   
“You’re surviving.” The Doctor says earnestly. “You’re doing what you have to. I know that isn’t an excuse for taking innocent lives – but the fact that you’re alive – that you exist!” He breathes. “Isn’t there a loophole or an alternative – something?”   
Jane seems to have lost some of her might. Her back has sagged and the fire of her eyes have diminished. The Doctor is able to see the green behind them.   
“What is it with you? You don’t even care?”  
“I do. But I admire you too much, you’re resilience and – I want to learn about you.”   
“You’re insane.” The Doctor notices some of the black markings on her skin are fading to a slight grey, others, like those on her hands, have fled completely.   
“I already knew that.” The Doctor replies flippantly, because he does know, and it isn’t the point. The point is that Jane hasn’t killed him yet – hasn’t even attempted to. They’ve been standing only a small width a part, both of them in the casted shadow of the barn, breathing in the residue of the night, listening to the world. They’ve already coexisted for so long; why might they not continue to do so? “What I don’t know,” The Doctor says, inching forward ever so slightly. “Is what makes a monster? How are we – you and I – any different from another?”   
“I’ve killed people.”   
“So have I.”   
“I’m constantly hunted.”   
“So am I,” And, technically, he is. There was River, and those people who brainwashed her to kill him. There are others, too; there have to be. It isn’t a wonder why the Doctor takes to running.   
Jane seems on the brink of something. There’s moisture collecting at her brow, and those lips that the Doctor finds so interesting are in a constant frown. “What – just what are you trying to get at?”  
“You are amazing.” The Doctor says, smiling when Jane just looks at him like he’s mad. “You are. You and all the others like you, and those that aren’t . Your very existence – it doesn’t make sense. You shouldn’t be here, but you are. Don’t you get it?” He’s getting excited, doing that stupid thing he does with his hands – he can’t help it. “You’re a myth. All of you. Vampires and ghosts and something – a wendigo? I don’t know. And yet, you’re here, alive, staring at me. And there’s no rhyme or reason, you just are and it’s an absolute miracle.”   
“I don’t understand.” Jane says, and the Doctor believes her. She really doesn’t get it, he supposes an existence of death, of being told you’re the bad guy will do that to you. “I don’t understand how you can look at it – look at me, that way.”  
“You are, quite literally, a fairy tale come to life.” And wasn’t the Doctor a sucker for story books.   
“You’ve seen what I do – you’ve been in the barn.”  
“Yes,” The Doctor amends, because that does bother him. “There’s really no need for that.”   
“I never used to like it. I still don’t.” Jane – her voice has gone small, so has she herself. She’s drawn in, shoulders pulled close, hands fiddling. She’s afraid. “My brother – he insisted gathering them like cattle was the only way. I think, over the years, I got used to it.”  
“They always hunt in pairs.”   
Sam had said that. The Doctor worries as to where that brother is; he thinks Jane feels the same.   
“So, there are other way, then.”   
Jane nods. “A lot of us work in morgues – feeding off the dead. It isn’t as satisfying, but it – it would keep us alive.”   
“I know I don’t know you Jane, and you have no reason to trust me. But – I trust you.” As that, Jane looks up, startled. “I do,” The Doctor assures. “I trust you to help me wake my friend, to allow us all to leave, and to become a better you. To become Jane, not the monster.”   
For a moment, Jane’s emerald eyes glow gold; her lips which the Doctor now understands as a small, perfect, unique heart, they tilt in the corners. He sees his words echoing in the humid air around them, sees them sink into her and settle deep within, igniting a fire, an idea; the image of Jane as the Doctor sees her. Alive. Beautiful. Extraordinary. He watches as that girl begins to emerge; but then, there’s a shout and Jane wilts and turns away –   
The Doctor watches as the Winchesters run out of the house, stakes in hand, a boy with spiraling black marks following behind.   
The boy – which, must be Jane’s brother, for he has similar red hair, and the same porcelain skin – he’s injured. As he runs, he clutches the side of his torso, where deep, crimson blood is steadily flowing from. The hand held there is painted red.   
“Thomas!” Jane helps the boy stand before he can fall at her feet. She struggles to hold his weight, but her face is hard as stone. “This is why, Doctor,” And there is ice like venom in her voice.   
“Kill them, Jane.” Thomas slurs, his teeth stained with internal damage.   
The Winchesters rush forward, stakes aimed; the Doctor yells, “Wait!”   
For reasons unknown, the boys listen to him. They don’t lower their arms, don’t break their tight grip where they hold their wooden stakes – but they listen. They stand still, waiting. It’s their faces that dare to ask – they look at the Doctor, and he sees in their eyes the question – why? What are you doing?   
“Jane,” The Doctor says, pleading for her to look at him. He knows what he must look like – a mad man in a bow tie with gangly legs and a big chin. But she needs to listen to him.   
“Jane, please.”   
Finally, she turns her eyes away from Thomas – they glow blue and sting where they land.   
“It is still possible, Jane. You know you can still be someone else.”   
“My brother,” She looks down at him; her brother is slipping, his eyes are drooping and hi jaw is slack with a run of red saliva falling from it. “He’s – they’ve killed him.”   
“I know,” The Doctor says. “I know, and Jane, I am so sorry. But – you said you don’t like living like this. You don’t want to be like this.”   
“If I don’t kill them, they’re going to kill me.”   
The Doctor believes her. The threat has passed – her brother is dead in her arms, and yet neither of them – not Sam or Dean, have dropped their arms.   
“I won’t let them.” He promises. Even when Dean’s eyes flash and he almost says something, the Doctor means it. He will not let these boys harm her. They will go through him if they try and they will lose. “Jane,” He says. “No one else is going to die today.”   
It takes perhaps a minute, but the minute takes what feels like an hour. The Doctor watches the girl break, cracks forming in her skin, with gold shining through. She lets her brother drop – he falls dead weight, dead before he hits the ground. The blood seeps from his wound, into the soil, deep into the earth and back from which he came.   
“Okay,” She whispers – hollow and out of touch. The Doctor meets Dean’s eyes – he understands instantly and backs away, pulling Sam with him.   
The Doctor moves forward slowly, lets Jane know he’s going into her space; she watches mutely, eyes following his movements. When his hand lands lightly on her shoulder she flinches, but also looks relieved, like this is the first time a stranger has used contact to soother, rather than hurt.   
Jane’s eyes are wide and green, brimming with liquid. “Do you really think I could – that I can be something other - ?”   
Both hands on each of her shoulders, fingers gripped tight, the Doctor nods. “I do. I truly do.”   
Jane backs away, leans down and reaches into Thomas’ jean pocket. She protrudes a key. “This will unlock all the cages.” She turns and throws it to Sam. “Could you?”   
Sam catches the key and nods. He and Dean head into the barn, stakes forgotten and left on the patchy ground. After they’ve gone she says to the Doctor, quietly, “I can’t face them.”   
He understands. He doesn’t say anything.   
“Your friend,” Jane murmurs, looking up at the barn. “She’s lucky.”   
“Actually, it’s more the other way round.”   
She smiles. “That’s hard to imagine,” And then, turned to his face so he can see the heard of her lips split, “Thank you.”   
He would like to return the sentiment, but – “How do I wake her up?”   
Jane frowns. “She hasn’t already?” When the Doctor nods, Jane’s brow furrows. “She fought so hard, kicked Thomas in the ribs. I didn’t think we’d be able to keep her under for so long.”   
“Well she’s under,” The Doctor says sharply. “And she isn’t waking up.”   
There’s got to be a way to reverse it; surely a creature powerful enough to send someone plunging into their deepest dreams should be able to pull them out.   
“There’s nothing I can do.” And she sounds remorseful, but it isn’t enough.   
“Yes there is. There is, and you’re going to do it.”   
“I’m sorry,” There’s fear in her eyes – The Doctor would feel bad, he would, but there isn’t time for that. “I can’t – “   
“I don’t believe you.”   
“There is something we can do.” It’s Sam. The Doctor turns to him expectantly. How long has it been? A day now. A whole day. They’re running out of time – Clara is running out of time.   
Sam grimaces. “But it isn’t going to be pleasant.”

 

Later, after all of those captive had been released and taken somewhere safe, the Doctor and the Winchesters find themselves back at the motel.   
Clara is on one of the beds, still as ever, completely gone from them. For some reason, the Doctor is kind of – mad? He shouldn’t be, he knows that. It isn’t Clara’s fault. She was the one attacked. Dean had said it was difficult to fight your way out of those dreams. It’s just. She’s so smart – she really is, she’s clever. How is she not fighting? Does she know? She has to know. Why isn’t she fighting it? He may be wrongfully angry, but the fact of the matter is that he is angry. He is so upset and cross. Not just at Clara, either. He’s mad at himself for letting this happen, mad that the life he’s swept her into isn’t all that she wants.   
A hand snaps its fingers in his face. The Doctor blinks; looks up. It’s Dean.   
“Yes.” The Doctor says.   
“We’ve been talking to you.” Dean says.   
“Oh,” The Doctor says.   
Dean rolls his eyes. “So,” He starts. “Dream root. It’s disgusting but it gets the job done.”  
“And what job is that?”   
“If it’s made right,” Sam says while mixing said concoction, “It’ll allow you to enter the same dream as Clara’s. You’ll be in there with her.”   
“I can go in there and get her to wake up.”   
Sam nods. “We’ll have to knock you out first, though.”   
“Great,” The Doctor says, and for some reason he’s grinning. He straightens his bow tie, pulls his jacket in.   
Sam is mixing together the ingredients in one of the clear plastic cups kept in the bathroom. The drink is a rancid brown color, with a stink to match.   
It’s very exciting.   
With every herb or liquid added, the Doctor makes sure to ask what is what. Dean sighs, but Sam answers eagerly, going the extra mile by showing the Doctor each piece. “It’s on one of the journal pages – Dean, give it to him.” So then the Doctor gets the actual recipe and resides to just read and ask whatever questions come up. The Doctor tells himself that even after all this is over – when him and Clara are back and safe – he will spend some more time with these boys. There’s still so many questions, so much more to learn. And he thinks Clara will enjoy it all just as much – because she was right. There is magic.   
“Okay,” Sam brings the cup over to the Doctor. It smells even worse now, but he’s still excited. He idly wonders if it’ll even work on him, being an alien and all. There was only one way to find out. “Drink it all.” Sam says.   
“Right,” And he knocks it back in one go. He can feel his face pinching up; Sam wasn’t lying. Absolutely disgusting. He coughs a little, clearing the taste from his throat. “Alright.” He sits on the edge of the mattress, tilts his face up. Dean meets his eyes, raises an eyebrow; the Doctor nods. He sees the fist coming almost in slow motion, he blinks and –   
He’s back in the TARDIS.  
For a fraction of a second – not even a second, more like a millionth of second, the Doctor forgets. The Winchesters weren’t kidding. The Doctor knows his TARDIS, and for a moment, the smallest miniscule of a moment, the Doctor thought this was his TARDIS. Then he blinks, and he breathes and he listens. Not his. Very close, but not exactly. Everything is pretty much the same, but it’s limited. Using his context of the situation, the Doctor figures the missing things, the things only the Doctor would be aware of, are absent from Clara’s memory. If the information isn’t there, the chemical – or magic? – that creates the dream can’t use it. The Doctor thinks most people wouldn’t notice small things, like the lack of markings on some of the controls, made from eons of use, or the small, indecipherable dent in one part of the floor.   
Anyway, he’s in the TARDIS, or a version of it. For a painfully obvious reason this makes the Doctor extremely happy. He’d been – worried, suffice to say. If Clara’s dream had been somewhere else, some place she thought would be better – the Doctor, well. He just won’t think about that since it isn’t what happened.   
Clara comes from the hall, mid-sentence, talking to him as though he’s been there the entire time. Perhaps he has.   
“ – they’re just really amazing, you know? Or, they seemed to be. For the time period.” Clara shrugs, skirt swinging, lips painted in that vibrant red that she loves. “So, what do you say?”  
“To what?”  
Her brows furrow. “Persia!” She says. “The Great Persian Empire, with Cyrus and Darius and that Alexander fellow – who, by the way, was not all that Great.”   
“Of course,” The Doctor responds simply, if only to see Clara smile. “But, first Clara, you need to wake up.”   
Her smile turns confused. “Wake up?”   
“I know you remember.” The Doctor urges, stepping closer. “We were in the park, the lake and the moon. And then something took you. You were screaming.”   
“I don’t –“ She falls back against the console, her eyes on the floor, unfocused as she tries to find the memory.   
“They took you,” The Doctor continues. “And put you to sleep – put you into a dream.” Here he waves his arms at the fake TARDIS they’re in. “This is a dream.”   
“I don’t remember.” She looks up, pained. “Why don’t I remember?”   
“Dean said it was difficult. Whatever spell they have you under is strong.”   
“Dean?” She asks. “Spell? Like magic?”   
The Doctor smiles. “You’re gonna love it, Clara. You were right.”   
It doesn’t take her long to know what he means. “It isn’t all just science.”   
Not a question, but the Doctor says, “Yes.”   
The fear and the panic and any evidence of uncertainty leaves from her in a flash. Clara’s thinking face is on, lips pursed, her eyes drawn. The Doctor loves it.   
“Okay,” She says. “So – something has kidnapped me and put me into a dream.” She looks to the Doctor waits for him to nod. “What took me?”   
“They’re called djinn.”   
“Right. Where am I right now?”   
“With me.” The Doctor says. He knows she wants more detailed explanations, but that can all happen when they’re both awake and safe.  
“How long have I been asleep?”   
“Nearing two days, now.”   
Her brown, doll eyes widen. “Oh,” She says. “Then I’d better get to waking, haven’t I?”  
The Doctor nods. “That would be ideal.”   
“Last question.” He nods – go ahead. “How are you here?”  
He grins. “Magic.”

 

And then he’s gasping awake, head full of fuzz like he’d been underwater all that time. There’s a sour taste in his mouth, leftovers from the potion.   
Beside him, Clara is coughing, wrecked, raspy coughs dry and hoarse. She’s clutching her hollow stomach, rolling onto her side and pressing her face into the motel pillow. Here, the Doctor rolls over as well, parallel to his friend, hoping to meet her eye.   
She blinks up at him, eyes clear and sparkling. “Good morning.”   
Clara opens her mouth to speak, croaks out – something, then thinks better of it. She closes her mouth and smiles.   
“Welcome back,” It’s Dean. He’s standing over the Doctor, a glass of water and a bag of something greasy in his hands.   
Clara sits up slowly, muscles weak, to sit with her back against the head board. Dean hands her his loot, and she smiles that charming, captivating smile of hers. The one where her pristine teeth peak through.   
The Doctor knows how that smile makes him feel – and in looking at Dean, at the surprised grin and blushed pink cheeks, the Doctor knows he feels the same. While Clara sips at her water and rummages through the take out bag, the Doctor says, “Sam, Dean this is Clara. Clara – Sam and Dean Winchester.” He bounces up from the bed, finding that even though he hadn’t technically been asleep, he feels extremely refreshed. Perhaps it was just the euphoria of having Clara back.   
After Clara’s stomach stops eating itself and her throat feels well enough to talk with, the four of them, Clara and the Doctor and the Winchesters, chat. Clara is beside herself with delight; she keeps darting glances at the Doctor, dimpled cheeks with a smirk. Sam hands her the journal, the same as he had with the Doctor, and Clara loves it. As more time passes, she begins to remember. The thing is, though – Clara has been through a lot. She’s died and lived and felt fear grip her so tight she could hardly breathe. Sam was expecting tears and horror – instead, he gets Clara, her button nose scrunched up asking, “What happened to them?”   
And Sam says, “What?”   
“Those people, those – djinn? What happened to them?”   
“Jane and Thomas,” The Doctor says. “Jane left to start a new life somewhere else, somewhere better.” He sighs. “Thomas didn’t make the day.”   
Clara nods, slow and assessing. She looks at the Doctor, a small smile on her chapped lips. She doesn’t have to say anything and neither does her. She knows who convinced Jane to leave, who gave her hope to start a new. Clara won’t admit it, but she expects this of him, of the Doctor. He always achieves it, without even trying. She never grows tired of it, or upsets if it doesn’t work. Because usually it always works.   
“Wouldn’t you know,” Clara says. “The Doctor used to be a huge skeptic.”   
“Not a huge skeptic,” The Doctor scoffs. “I was just – unconvinced, unsure,”  
“Skeptic.”  
The Doctor frowns. He was not a skeptic. “I have a question,” He says, rather than dragging out the irrelevant conversation. When Clara nods, pulling a chip into her mouth, the Doctor pauses, eyes stuck on the mess that is her wrist. The skin is mangled and rubbed raw; red and irritated with dried blood. He thinks her ankles must look the same. He pulls her hand towards him, fingers gentle; Sam says, “Hold on,” He heads into the bathroom, returning with a clean, damp wash cloth and a first aid kit.   
The Doctor takes the cloth from him with a grateful smile. He goes about cleaning the wound while saying, “So, question.”   
“Yes.”   
“You may not want to answer.” He warns.   
Clara shakes her head. “Ask me.”   
The Doctor pauses again, hesitates. Once the one wrist is clean, he grabs the antibiotic cream and bandages from the first aid kit. As he’s wrapping the gauze, he asks, “You didn’t wake up on your own.” He says, quietly. “Why didn’t you?” He supposes it may be a rude question. He doesn’t think he’s angry anymore – it is hard to; Clara is awake and safe, chewing happily on a take-out meal, her eyes sparkling with life. But it’s also impossible to forget that he had been angry. He been so, so angry. She wouldn’t – the Doctor is convinced that had he not gone into the dream, Clara would never have woke on her own. Perhaps he isn’t angry, exactly, he just wants to understand.   
“I don’t know,” Clara says slowly, eyes far off, trying to think. She must not understand either. “I think –“ She pauses, shrugs. “It didn’t feel like a dream. It was just a normal day in the TARDIS. A normal day with you.” She shrugs again. “I couldn’t tell it was anything but ordinary.”   
It’s not – it’s not good, obviously. She would have died because of it, but she isn’t dead and the Doctor can’t help feeling giddy. He’s smiling.   
Sam and Dean are gathering their things, packing away their supplies, stuffing clothing and other mundane things into duffel bags.   
Clara asks, “Where will you go next?”   
Dean says, “Wherever.”   
“There may be something in Ohio,” Sam says, holding up his phone. “Check it out.”   
Dean scans over the text on the phone. He nods. “Yeah – looks like a, hmm, werewolf?”   
Sam nods. “Timing would be right.”   
“This is your life?” Clara asks.  
“Pretty much,” Sam replies nonchalantly.   
Clara nods, seemingly satisfied. She looks at the Doctor. “Is the TARDIS where we left it?”   
“Yes,” He says; looks to the Winchesters. “Could we get a ride?” 

 

The Doctor refuses to say goodbye.   
This is not the end of their adventures together – him and the Winchesters. He still has questions, still wants more. The journal had been full to the very last page, but Sam admitted it was lacking, thought about starting a new one. There’s more out there for the Doctor to see, but right now he needed to get Clara home, get her a proper meal and time to heal.   
The TARDIS is where it had been yesterday, undisturbed by the lakeside. It was a beautiful sight – until Dean started laughing.   
“That’s your space ship?”  
The Doctor turns on him, head held high. “Yes? So?”   
Dean is still huffing amused chuckles. “It’s just – not what I was expecting.” He shrugs, a smirk on his lips. “Seems a little small.”   
“I’ll have you know –“ Clara places a hand against the Doctor’s chest, holding him back. She looks up at him, blinks once and the Doctor smiles. “Would you like to come inside?” He asks.   
Dean shakes his head, but Sam says, “Sure.”  
Needless to say, Dean was eating his words. And he became the Doctor’s favorite Winchester when he said, “It’s, uhm, bigger on the inside.”   
After Clara says goodbye, she heads deeper into the TARDIS, heels clinking into oblivion. As the Winchesters exit, Sam calls over his shoulder, “Don’t be a stranger.”   
The Doctor doesn’t plan to. He’s looking forward to the next time they meet.


End file.
